Friday is the Worst Day of the Week
by Monny287
Summary: Chase hates Fridays. Why? It has to do with a certain best friend...


**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

**A/N: This is actually based on another fanfic I read (A Harry Potter fanfic, actually), called "I Hate Fridays". I thought it sounded a lot like Chase and Zoey. Enjoy!**

"Chase, will you _please_ stop that!" Michael slams his math textbook closed, trying to get my attention. I snap out of my reverie and find that I'm drumming my fingers on the top of the table we're sitting at in the lounge. My homework is long forgotten, lying strewn in a messy half-circle around me. I'm supposed to be concentrating for a science test I have next week. It's worth a rather large portion of our grade. But all I can look at is that damn clock hanging on the wall above the TV, watching the second hand tic by with such an annoyingly regular pace, it makes me want to go over, rip it off the wall, and throw it out the window. I toss Michael an apologetic smile before trying (unsuccessfully) to memorize scientific facts that I'm pretty sure I'll never use after this. I hate Fridays.

Fridays used to be the best day of my week. The last class would let out, and I'd feel nothing but the exciting anticipation of a lazy Saturday spent sleeping in, and a Sunday afternoon filled with warm sunshine and the occasional breeze. Perfect beach weather. Weekends were the best.

But lately, every Friday evening, I get this growing, burning sensation in the pit of my stomach, eating away at the lining. The anticipation of something usually makes the actual even better, right? Well, my anticipation of the weekend usually starts around Thursday night, when Michael, Logan and I bid the girls goodnight and go to bed, and reaches its peak somewhere around Friday afternoon at three, when the school day ends. By that time I'm wound tighter than a drum, and then it's all Michael and Logan can do to calm me down before I lose my mind, or do something I might _really_ regret.

Usually the excitement of a few days free of tests and books and learning leaves me feeling as free as thought I were a bird having been tethered to a tree, only to have it's strings cut.

But lately, that feeling has been replaced by the feeling of the acids in my stomach churning and hitting against the sides of it until I'm pretty sure I have an ulcer has been ruining my weekends more than if I had to study for my math final in one afternoon.

I don't get it. Nothing's changed. It's not as though I'm a gladiator, about to fight lions and homicidal, half-starved Romans for the right to live. I _love _the weekends. I _live_ for the weekends. I'm finally _free_ once that school bell rings, and I should be ecstatic. But honestly, I'm beginning to _hate_ my weekends.

So, after a few minutes of me consciously trying not to do anything that would annoy the other people in the room (Michael looks as though if I start thumping my fingertips on the table again, he might just take his history book and slam it down on my hand), and trying not to look at the clock, I see Logan, who's sitting on the couch across from me playing a video game with lively music, give me an all-knowing look. The kind that makes him look half-intelligent with a half-martyr sigh, and I know in a moment he's going to start spewing some mistaken I-know-what's-wrong-with-you, crazy philosophical speech, and the only thing I can pray is that it's short so I can go back to chewing myself up inside without interruption.

"I know what' wrong with you, Chase," he says, on cue, ten seconds later. He pauses his video game, throws it down on the table, and props himself up on one elbow. _Oh, sure you do,_ is the first thought that comes to mind, and I bit the inside of my mouth from saying it with a little more sarcasm and venom than I would mean it to. I swallow down the bile that has risen from its proper place in my stomach and glance again at the clock over the TV.

As I watch the minute hand pass the nine with a deliberate stroke, it's all I can do to make the spaghetti I had for dinner stay where it's supposed to. I feel nauseated and sick, and I have no idea why. Fridays at seven used to mean a game of basketball, or a movie in the lounge or at the theater. Now it means an agonizing two days that will eventually drive me to a mental hospital. Pity they don't have one on campus. I'm sure Michael and Logan would be more than willing to check me in, at this point.

Logan's still staring at me, as if he expects me to kiss his hand and beg him to tell me what's wrong with me. If I don't respond in a few seconds, he's going to tell me anyway, so I might as well humor him.

"Enlighten me," I say, putting down my pencil. "What's my problem?"

"You," he says, sitting up. "Need a girlfriend." I can see Michael next to me trying to pantomime to Logan that me and girls are a touchy subject to bring up. Logan ignores him and leans forward so that his forearms are resting on his knees. I have a sudden overwhelming urge to smack that all-knowing grin off his face.

"Yeah, thanks for the advice, Logan," I mutter, throwing him a glare and turning back to my science textbook, not reading a thing. I feel my foot start twitching under the table and am thankful that Michael doesn't notice. I need to get rid of this nervous energy.

A couple of whistles and the sound of giggling coming from behind me cause me to turn around, and low and behold, here comes one of the reasons I wake up in the morning. And by every god out there, does she look beautiful. No, wait. I mentally open up the thesaurus section of my mind, and pull out a better adjective. Not just beautiful, ravishing. No, more than that. Dammit Matthews, think! What am I saying? Thinking left the building about five minutes ago. She looks good enough to eat, devour actually, and right now all I'd like to do is shove her into the nearest janitors closet and reenact some of those fantasies that pop into my head when I'm supposed to be paying attention in science class (which is quite impossible when she's sitting right next to me, her elbow bumping mine as she takes notes. It's no wonder I'm failing that class.).

She walks in next to Lola, blushing slightly at the appreciative whistles from the other guys in the room, dressed in a filmy white dress shirt, rolled up to her elbows, and coming down un-tucked over a pair of very tight blue jeans and sneakers. Her hair is in those adorable braids that give her the look of a school girl, and is wearing a hint of that blasted watermelon lip gloss; the smell of it alone drives me crazy.

But the part that makes my heart lodge in my throat and my stomach tighten somewhere in the lower abdominal region is the fact that she's sucking a lollipop. She's really casual about it, but I swear, I've never wanted to be cherry and artificially flavored so much in my entire life. I look away, because if I don't, I will soon need a cold shower.

"Hey guys," Lola greets us, Quinn coming up on her right. "So, how does she look?" She gestures, salesman like, to Zoey. She beamed, obviously proud of her accomplishment in helping Zoey dress for the evening.

"She looks great," Michael said, giving a wide grin before returning to his homework.

"Awesome," Logan agreed, giving her a once-over before going to back to his video game. Lola looks to me for my reaction, and I'm sure my gaping fish-out-of-water routine speaks volumes. She gives me a satisfied smirk, while Zoey looks at me as if she's wondering when exactly I became a mute. My pencil remains, shakily, hovering over my paper, the thought that I had been ready to write down for question number three suddenly flying somewhere unreachable.

"So, is Andrew taking you somewhere really nice tonight?" Michael asks, giving up on trying to do his homework and instead putting his books in his backpack and leaning back a bit against a stack of pillows behind him, cradling his head in his hands. I feel the bottom of my stomach drop out, suddenly remembering exactly why I hate Fridays. I check my watch again. Seven-fifty five. _Five minutes until Zoey's date,_ my mind reminds me in an obnoxious sing-song voice. Sometimes I think my subconscious is out to drive me insane. I have the urge to tell it to go to hell, but saying that aloud might just convince Logan and Michael that now would be the time to commit me into that insane asylum I'm sure they've been looking at. I bite my tongue and tap my foot impatiently against the carpet. I hate Fridays.

"Not really," she says, fiddling with the hem of her shirt. God, that's cute. And there I go again. I glance away from her and down at paper in front of me, trying to get a hold of myself. "Just a picnic down by the beach."

"Sounds romantic," I mutter bitterly. At least, I thought it was muttering. Apparently, it wasn't. "Maybe you'll fall in and Andrew can rescue you. Hell, maybe if you're lucky, he'll give you mouth-to-mouth." Michael gives me a glare as the girls look at me with shock. I'm sure I have the words _jealous idiot_ tattooed on my forehead, but at the moment, I don't care. All I'd like to do is snap Andrew's thin little neck. And as I look at my watch, he should be arriving any minute. I put on a fake happy smile.

A moment later, the short rap on the now closed lounge door and the friendly tentative "Hello?" indicates that Andrew has indeed arrived. He's early tonight. The acid in my stomach climbs it's way painfully into my esophagus. I want to rip his head off. He looks like an idiot. And that's not just my biased view of things. I look over at Michael and Logan, giving me the _You've got to be kidding me_ look. The kid is actually wearing a button down flannel shirt. I understand the guy's from up north, but you'd think he'd at least somehow conform to California style. Nope. His dirty-blonde hair is tousled, as if he'd just come back from a wind-tunnel, and he was wearing cuffed jeans. Cuffed jeans? Who in their right mind wears cuffed jeans? Didn't those go out in third grade? Anyone I knew would be killed socially for wearing them. But surprisingly, this guy can pull it off, and it sickens me. He gives a winsome smile to the girls before acknowledging the others in the room.

"Hey guys," he nods to us each in turn. "So, is my girl ready to go?" He turns and gives Zoey a wink. _My girl._ The words make me want to throw up my dinner. I'm afraid if I don't leave the room in a minute, my head's going to spin around and I'm going to spew green slime over everyone, like _The Exorcist_. _No, she's not ready to go, _I think to myself, _But I'll take you somewhere. How about the middle of no where and I'll leave you for dead? _I grip my pencil a little harder, feeling the wood bend and croak in protest under the pressure. Especially when Zoey gives him an adorable little giggle and an endearing smile. Andrew heeds me no mind, instead offering his arm, gentle-man like, to Zoey to take. I have the sudden urge to break his arm in several places, but cover it with a cough. God, I hate Fridays at seven.

"Yeah, I'm ready to go," she says, taking his arm. She turns back around "Unless there's something I've forgotten to do. Is there? Something I needed to do tonight?" She puts emphasis on the last question, and I swear, she's looking right at me when she asks it. _I can think of a few things I'd like to do tonight,_ I think scandalously. I shake my head while the others answer in the negative, and Zoey looks kind of disappointed for a moment and sighs, but gives a small smile, and hands me the lollipop she'd been sucking on. I see Quinn and Lola exchange one of those all-knowing girly looks that I hate so much, waving to Zoey as she walks out the door. I look sullenly at the half-eaten lollipop before popping it into my own mouth. It's as close to a kiss as I'll get from Zoey, that's a fact. I cross my arms and pout slightly. Stupid Andrew. Stupid date. Stupid Fridays.

"Chase, you re the biggest idiot I've ever seen," Lola says suddenly, turning around quickly from the door to give me the worst glare I've seen her give a person. She puts her hands on her hips and gives an exasperated glare at my shocked look.

"What?" I ask, my jaw dropping so much the lollipop nearly dropping out of my mouth.

"Dude, Lola's right," Michael says. Great, now it's going to be gang-up-on-Chase night. I turn in his direction. "Zoey didn't want to go tonight."

"What? Of course she did...she didn't? How could you tell?" I ramble on. Great. I go from indifference to slight care to inquisitive in the space of five seconds. I mentally slap myself. Hard.

"Didn't you see the way she looked at you?" Quinn asks. I hear Lola mutter under her breath _"The way she always looks at you"._

"Umm...no?" I offer. I look helplessly at the rest of group. They all give me the _You're an idiot _look that Lola just gave me a moment ago. I sigh.

"Dude, she looks at you like _every_ guy wants a girl to look at him," Michael said. "She's so head over heels for you, it's unbelievable. Didn't you even notice that she asked that to give you to opportunity to ask her to stay and not go with him?"

"Yeah, right," I mumble, even though a nagging hope has caught the back of my mind and is tugging it to a dangerous place. I shake my head and once again resign myself to my unrequited-love, friend-boy status. I take the lollipop out of my mouth and twirl it in my fingers, just staring at it, hoping the others will go away and leave me to my misery. When they don't leave, I glumly replace the lollipop back in my mouth and shoot death glares at everyone in the room. Which, given my track record of glares, doesn't do much but make me look like an idiot.

A half-hour later signals curfew, and a wandering hallway proctor comes in to tell us so. I help Michael gather up his notes and books while scooping up my own and shoving them haphazardly into my already crammed backpack. With a resigned sigh, I throw it over my shoulder and follow my room mates back up to our dorm. Logan goes into the bathroom to take a shower, and I see Michael flop unceremoniously on the top bunk, causing the entire thing to shake as I flip open my laptop and the small light attached to the side. I fiddle around on the computer for awhile, working on a script I've rather lost interest in, surfing the web for interesting news stories, random facts, anything I can think of that will possibly keep my mind off the fact that the love of my life is out on a date with a guy that's not me and who I can't stand (not just because he's dating Zoey. What? It's not!) Logan eventually goes to bed after about an hour of playing that stupid video game and admiring himself in the mirror he hung over his bed, and soon, the only light in the room is the light from my laptop.

I look at my watch. They should have been back by now, but a recent conversation with Lola in the girl's dorms told me that Zoey hadn't been seen since she left with Andrew. I'll wring his neck if he makes her get detention for being out past curfew. Hell, I'll just wring his neck for the sheer pleasure of it. I have an inner debate with myself as I glance once more at the bottom right-hand corner of my computer screen on whether or not I should wallow in misery here, to have her come back and tell me how great the date was either through phone or an IM, or go for a walk and wallow in misery out there. Either way, misery loves company, and my wandering mind is company enough.

I shut down my computer, careful not to wake Logan or Michael as the music that indicates the laptop's shutting down program sounds off. I grab a hooded sweatshirt from the closet and my sneakers from where they lay under the bed. Tugging both on, I carefully open the door, wincing at the _click_ it makes as the stopping mechanism is released. I sneak down the hall, careful not to be caught by the dorm advisor, and am home free once I creep out the door to the building.

The pitch-blackness of the campus makes it more dark and spooky than I would have imagined possible in the daylight, and I pull the sweatshirt a little tighter around my body as a cold breeze floats through the fabric. I wander along the pathways, down through the basketball court and onto the beach, the silt crunching under my toes and the waves making a perfect soundtrack to my despair. I pick up a pebble and try to bounce it through the crashing waves, but as they thundered over the boulders further down the beach, it didn't hold much promise that I'd even be able to throw the pebble in without it being hurled back at me by a white cap. As I approach the boulders, I notice a figure sitting on the largest one, and as I get closer, I begin to recognize that figure. It's Zoey. But what in the world is Zoey doing out at...I check my watch...ten-thirty at night, watching the waves crash around her? Something must have gone wrong on the date. I suddenly feel an urge to run into Andrew's dorm room, rip his head off, and feed it to the nearest dog I can find. But for now, I manage to compose myself enough to walk (okay, run) over to the rock.

"Zoey?" I call, my voice almost getting drowned out by the waves. She turns at my voice.

"Chase?" she asks in return. I smile, and scramble up to sit next to her.

"Zo, what's the matter? You look a little...flustered," and she does. There's sand on her shirt and pants, and in her hair, and I notice she's not as well put-together as she was at seven. The only rational thought was that she was going at it with Andrew, but that thought is painful, so I shove it away and await her explanation.

"Oh, Andrew was just acting all teenage-boyish tonight," she explains, running a hand through her hair in an attempt to rid it of sand. Teenage-boyish. That sounds like a plausible case for murder, doesn't it? I wonder if that would stand up in court.

"What did he do?" I ask, my voice a forced calm. She puts a hand over mind reassuringly.

"He just tried to go a little too fast, that's all," she says. "But you aren't to do anything, okay? I took care of it." I wasn't planning to anything to him. Except give him a slow, painful death.

"What did you do to him?" I ask, curious. Zoey never struck me as a violent person. Andrew is still getting killed later...but later.

"I punched him," she says shyly, showing me her hand, which has started to bruise, and a small cut is there from where she must have made contact with a tooth or something. "Not hard, or anything, but enough to get him to stop." I stifle a shocked gasp, and a chuckle, instead taking her hand and laying it in my lap, gently rubbing the area that had started to darken.

"I never thought you had it in you," I reply honestly, watching her look soften as she looks down at our joined hands. "You're a regular Mohamed Ali, huh?"

"Not quite up there yet," she giggles. I have the sudden urge to kiss her right now, but I force it down. "But I figure, a few more guys with fast hands like Andrew, and I should be ready to duel with the best of them." If I had anything to say about it, no guy like Andrew would even be allowed within a fifty mile radius of her. I'd never be able to do that, though, and it saddens me. So instead, I continue to caress her hand, trying to pour out all my feelings in that simple touch. I notice she's not moving her hand away, and that bubble of hope from earlier rises a bit more.

We stay that way for awhile, and only when I hear the characteristic _beep _of my watch indicating the hour has passed do I move. I look down, and realize it's eleven, and if we get caught, not only will we get detention, but there will be a lot of rumors floating around school. I take her other hand and pull her up.

"We should get going," I say, and I notice her face is a little flushed. I guide her off the rock, and some nagging part of my mind wishes vehemently that she would trip so I could catch her. If there would be any time to tell that part of my mind to go to hell, it would be now. However, we scuttle off the boulder, and walk down the beach. That same nagging part of my mind tells me that she hasn't let go of my hand, and I feel a rush of satisfaction because of it. I bite it back, literally biting the inside of my cheek to stop from blurting out something I might regret.

I carefully manage to sneak us back into her dorm building, creeping past Coco, who is watching a chick flick and indulging in the family-sized can of ravioli and a large carton of ice cream. That could only mean another break-up. It also meant that she'll be too distracted to notice two teenagers sneaking past her office. I silently rejoice, and swiftly tug Zoey past the doorway. Coco doesn't even notice; I can hear her sobs of "No, she doesn't love you!" down the hallway. Zoey stifles a giggle behind her hand, and I fight the urge to just back her up against the wall and...never mind. I smile back, and grip her hand a little tighter.

We reach her dorm undetected, and she tugs her key off her neck and pushes open the door after unlocking it. Oddly enough, the room is dark. Zoey doesn't look perturbed as she flips on the light, pulls me by the shirt sleeve inside the dorm.

"Where is everyone?" I ask. My subconscious smacks me. _Who cares? You're alone in a room with Zoey late at night, and you ask where her room mates are? Idiot!_

"Well, Quinn had a date with Mark tonight," she says, flopping down on her bed. I sit next to her. "And Lola is probably in your dorm."

"My dorm?"

"At this point, she's probably examining Michael's tonsils," she giggles. Okay, _anyone_ examining Michael's tonsils was an image I didn't need. I shudder, and she giggles again. I smile, feeling a sense of pride that she laughed at me. I go into the bathroom and retrieve rubbing alcohol and bandages.

She doesn't say anything as I take her injured hand in my own again, and lay it in my lap. She doesn't move it away as I unscrew the cap of the antiseptic and put some on a gauze pad I found I had grabbed along with the bandages. I begin to gently rub the gauze pad over the small cut on her hand, apologizing as I hear a sharp intake of breath on her part. I can feel her staring at me, but I can't bring myself to look at her. Because I know if I do, I'll fall headfirst into those gorgeous green eyes, and I fall, I'll most certainly drown. Right now I'm doing everything I can do just to keep my head above the surface. Somehow the knowledge that she hadn't wanted Andrew's affections calmed me. That didn't mean she wanted mine, of course, but at least my urge to hurt him very badly has now passed.

I rub my thumb carefully over the darkening bruise on her hand before putting on the bandage. Finally, I look up, and I swear our faces are closer than they were a few minutes ago. My senses are on their toes, hyper-aware of the smell of her perfume and a hint of her shampoo. I can smell the salt of the sea on her skin from sitting out on the beach, and the scent of grass from where she was sitting with Andrew. If I reach out, just a little bit, I can caress her cheek to see how soft her skin really is; trace the frame of her face with my fingertips, the outline of her lips, count the sparkles in her eyes.

"Chase, do something for me," she whispers just loud enough for me to hear. The sound of her voice breaks whatever self-control I had in her presence to little bits. I would rope the moon for her if she asked me to. I build up the courage to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear, and I swear she gasps and shudders at my touch. Her eyes close for a moment before opening again, and the brilliant color of her eyes has never been more apparent to me.

"Anything," I answer, our breaths mingling. I wonder what it would be like if I had the courage to move a bit closer and feel the delightful friction of her lips against mine. I feel my resolve breaking as she licks those lips before whispering her request.

"Kiss me," she says, and for a moment, I could have sworn I misheard. But the darkening gaze fixed on me tells me that I hadn't.

"Are you sure?" I ask. My mind slaps me again. I didn't want to scare her, and I had the nagging fear that if I started, I wouldn't be able to stop. I didn't want to turn out like Andrew.

"I'm sure," she declares, and I don't need to be told a third time. Almost before she can finish the sentence, I kiss her. And by God, no fantasy I dreamed up in science class could compare to this. I feel a buzzing of energy make its way from the pit of my stomach, fizzling like electricity through my veins and filling the back of my eyelids with bright color. And judging by the small whimpering noises she's making, I can only gather that she's feeling the same way. Before I can stop it, my tongue sweeps along her bottom lip. I hear her gasp in surprise before allowing me access, and God, I am home. She leans back on the bed, tugging me on top of her by the collar of my t-shirt. It feels like we're trying to fuse not only our bodies but our souls together, and I'm convinced that I'm going to wake up any minute from the sound of the alarm clock from one of the best Zoey dreams I've had in awhile. She tastes so good, and I find that our hands are wandering of their own accord. Her skin is so soft, and I hope to God I'm not dreaming...

"Chase, I love you," she murmurs against my lips. _Okay, that's it, I'm dreaming. No way in hell would I hear __**that**__ in real life. _My mind is racing at about fifty miles a minute, and I can barely think straight. I pull back in surprise. She cups my cheek in one soft hand. "You're not dreaming. I love you."

I have to physically keep myself from running victory laps around campus, screaming with joy at the top of my lungs, because that would be terribly unromantic. I suddenly find myself kissing her with a passion I never knew I could conjure up, but comes so naturally. She responds in kind, and I thank my lucky stars. I pull back again, and rest my forehead against hers.

"I love you, so much," I whisper. "You have no idea. Ever since the day I saw you." She gives a smile before hooking her arms around the back of my neck and pulling me in again. I don't know how long we remained like that, but much too soon, I hear a voice.

"Well, it's about time," the voice says, with a note of triumph and satisfaction. We break apart reluctantly, to find Lola leaning against the closed door, grinning like the mad hatter with her arms crossed over her chest. I sit back off, sitting up on the bed. Zoey clears her throat, and I notice she looks like something the cat dragged in. I feel a thrill of satisfaction as she attempts in vain to straighten her appearance. Lola raises her eyebrows at the two of us, but doesn't say anything. Taking another glance at my watch, I notice it is well past midnight.

"I should be going," I say, more to Lola than to Zoey. I give Zoey a kiss on the forehead before making my way towards the door. I turn back, and the warm, loving look she gives me makes me want to kick Lola out, so we can continue where we left off. She smiles, and I feel the floor melt from the intensity of her stare.

"Chase, I hope you know I won't be going out with Andrew anymore," she says. I grin.

"I should hope not," I say. "Good night." I close the door behind me, leaving me surrounded by the darkness of the hallway.

Before I go to bed, I take one last walk around the beach, where I had been sulking in misery only hours before. I look into the waves, and all I can see is her face, giving me that come-hither stare she was giving me as I left. I skip a pebble across the surface, and smile. A laugh escapes my lips, and the only thing I can think as I stare at the boulder I had found Zoey on, was that I love the weekends. _Especially_ Fridays.


End file.
